


Not Made of Gold

by Traxits



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Multi, Post-Canon, Romance, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 04:24:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traxits/pseuds/Traxits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She made him swear to keep Alistair on his feet until he could stand alone. Maker help him, Zevran will honor that final promise, even if it kills him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A slow dying flower in the frost killing hour

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shades of Grey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/60863) by [Traxits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traxits/pseuds/Traxits). 



> So, some two years ago, I wrote the first piece of long fiction (as in, fiction that lasted more than a single scene) that I had written in a very long time. It was incredibly good for me, got me writing more than I imagined it would, honestly. On this piece of fiction, I was given a lot of feedback. Some wonderful praise, and some even better constructive criticism.
> 
> This piece of fiction was _Shades of Gray_ , and after two years of working through all of this feedback and rereading what I’d written, I can finally admit to myself that some of the criticism I’d gotten was right: I had made some pretty basic mistakes. Finally, I am working on fixing them. I am rewriting _Shades of Gray_ , and hopefully, I will be able to tell the story better this time.
> 
> That said, if you have already read _Shades of Gray_ , I wouldn’t immediately turn away just yet. I cannot say for certain how much of the story will remain the same in this retelling, as I am fixing some logic holes and trying to just generally keep everyone in character much better this time around.

Alistair would come back to her soon.

He would want to have his own emotions worked out. He would want to have come to terms with the fact that he planned on dying for her tomorrow if necessary. She stayed still for a minute, and slowly, she forced herself to move. She needed no recipe to make a sleeping draught. Mixing those ingredients as easy; it had been the only way she'd truly slept at all the past two years. She poured the potion into the wine glass just as she heard the clanking of armor outside of her tent.

He made her breathing hitch when he tugged the tent flap down behind him. Sweat still gleamed on his face from running endless drills with his sword and his shield. Mindless movements that gave him freedom to think; she'd always envied that. He peeled off the heaviest of his armor, reached for the wine she'd poured. She caught his hand, pulled him to the bedroll instead. He could drink it later.

Alistair's fingers slid down the line of her cheek and jaw as he whispered such sweet things to her. Sweet and foolish things. She drew another breath, just feeling for a moment. He swore that she wouldn't die. That he would protect her. That it was his duty to protect her.

She hadn't the heart to correct him.

He was her Templar, and she was a mage. Her duty, and he knew it, was to protect him and die for him if necessary. It was in everything the Circle had taught her. Mages were dangerous; Templars were useful. If one of them had to die, it was always better for the mage to take the blow.

She didn't correct him. She just smiled at him, smiled and kissed him, and let him pull her close. Let him hold her and kiss her and peel her robes back even as she unbuckled the last of his armor.

(She let him tell her goodbye with his mouth and his fingers, and if she was the one telling him goodbye instead... Well, he would know later. He would understand when he woke.)

When he pushed into her, she cried out for him, and he whispered her name into her hair.

It was soft. It was sweet. It was everything the past two years hadn't been.

And when they lay there after, breathless, heat stood in the backs of her eyes. They'd shared this moment countless times since Ostagar. But she had to admit to herself that she couldn't keep it.

She gave him his wine, drank a glass of her own, then surrendered to the darkness of sleep. When morning came, she dressed. She found paper and a pen and wrote him a letter that she couldn't make herself leave, and slipped out of the tent. He was still sleeping.

She caught one of the soldiers outside by the arm and sent him to find Sten and Shale. She wanted him to ask them to meet her by the city gates as soon as possible. And, after he'd done that, if he could release her hound, she would much appreciate it.

_Yes, Warden._

Because she was not a mage in his eyes, not a woman, not Solona. She was a Grey Warden, one of those destined to end the Blight. She watched him go, found her staff, and started toward the gates herself.

She stopped in the open field though, her head tilting back as she felt the warmth of the morning. The sunshine was on her skin. It skated across her face, and she leaned into it, letting it caress her cheeks and slide down her jaw.

Her head tilted back to the city ahead, and her eyes eased open. He wouldn't wake for hours, wouldn't wake until it was too late. Until there was no chance of him stopping her, no chance that he could tell the others what Riordan had told them. No chance that any of those who could read her would see her. She didn't want anyone to somehow realize that Morrigan had offered her another way.

She'd have asked for Morrigan this day, of all days, if she didn't know Morrigan had already left. The screaming and raging when Solona had said no had eventually subsided to tears. To broken whispers of a single word that Solona had no answer to. No answer that Morrigan could understand at least, and while Solona had held her, she knew she'd lost Morrigan in that moment.

She'd lost her the first time Morrigan had whispered, 'why'.

The others didn't need to know that.

They didn't need to know that Solona (not truly Solona Amell any more, not since she became a Warden had surrendered her past even more thoroughly than the Tower had taken it from her; she was Warden Solona now) was the most selfish person in existence.

It was better that way.

She took her first step toward the city, then another, but before she got any momentum going, she felt the wind rushing out of her chest. She stared across the field with parted lips as a narrow, thin figure walked toward her. Bright sunlight slid down blond hair, and his dark eyes glinted, hard and rough as he raked them over her, one hand perched on the dagger at his hip. Of all her companions to see her, it would be him. She swallowed, forced herself to breathe, and she gripped her staff a little more tightly as she met him. He watched her tug on her robes and without a word, he dropped to one knee before her. His hands slid down her legs for a heartbeat. Then he pulled the dagger and cut the hem short, sliced her skirts until they fell just above her knee. The ripping sound was loud in the field, and she reached down to tangle her fingers in his hair.

It was the soft kiss he placed against the side of her knee that made her eyes close for a moment, made her gasp. There was no trace of tongue in the motion, only the press of his lips to her skin, and she shivered for it. Her fingers tightened in his hair. He glanced up at her, but there was no smile on his face at her reaction. He dislodged her hand, and he stood, pulling her hand with him. He pressed his lips to the back of it before turning it over so that he could kiss her wrist instead.

The wind blew around them, and she found her voice then, managed to smile as she tilted her head toward him. "Zevran," she whispered, and her voice was rougher than it should have been. It was nearly as broken as Morrigan's had been, but there were no tears in her eyes. She counted it as a victory. The Maker knew she needed every victory she could get.

"You did not think you were going without me, did you?" he murmured, pulling her closer to him. She studied him, the way he was looking at her, the way his hand had moved to rest on her hip. Holding her. She pulled her hand from his then, placed it in the middle of his chest, and she pushed him back a step. She had to keep some sort of distance between them. She had a duty.

"I am going, and you are fighting in the second wave, Zev. You agreed."

"That was before you were foolish enough to think you were going to do this alone. Grey Warden or no—"

"It is my duty, Zevran. I have lived by my duties, and now, if I must, I will die by them as well." She pushed him another step back, and his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing. Her fingers slid over the buckle on his armor. She smiled again, this time a little more softly. "After all, it is only fair."

"How is it fair that you must go in there, that Alistair is letting you—"

"He doesn't know," she said. It cut off Zevran's words and left him staring at her, left him speechless for a moment. She dropped her hand and looked back at the city. "He is still sleeping. He will sleep, in fact, for some time. ...Tell me, wasn't there some sort of story you were telling me once about final wishes?"

"You are hardly in a position to demand a final wish, Solona. You are not on your deathbed."

She was. She had been the moment she'd Joined. The moment the chalice touched her lips and she'd felt the burn of the blood, she'd laid down on her deathbed. She'd heard the singing and the screaming and the cacophony of sound that was the darkspawn horde, and she'd known. She and Alistair both had, she suspected, even if they'd never spoken of it. She didn't have words for that though. Instead, she hummed a single tuneless note, and she glanced back at him. "Even so, I have one. I have a single desire above all else this morning."

He turned to look at the city, his lips thinning as he pressed them together, weighing it, maybe. Weighing her words and her desire and the fact that they both knew he would do anything she wanted if she asked him to. They stayed quiet for a long moment. She focused on the fact that she could see Sten and Shale beginning their journey to the city gates. They were gathering as she'd asked. Any moment and Rabbit would bound across the grass to rub against her legs. He would be her final companion on this climb.

Was the Fade where she would end up? Did Grey Wardens pass easily or did they get trapped there? Did the taint in their blood corrupt their souls until the Fade couldn't tell them from the demons? It would be lonely in the Fade if she was mistaken for a demon. Was she a demon? Had she, a mage, been born a demon only to have that destiny ultimately realized in the cup that Duncan had handed her, the chalice still glistening with the blood of the darkspawn and the saliva of a dead man?

She hadn't even paused to think before she'd turned it up. It wasn't the first time someone had given her something to drink that could end in her death, after all. She'd had the lyrium in her Harrowing, had drunk deep and long from it, until her head was swimming. She could no longer hear the First Enchanter or the head Templar, and she'd woken to a dream world, a surreal land of blurring figures and the vaguest pain her head that never seemed to end.

In some ways, mages had a ridiculous advantage over everyone else when it came to their Joining.

"It will destroy him, Solona," Zevran said, and she looked at him and managed a slight smile. Her eyes felt hot, her face flushed, and she couldn't look at him long before she had to blink back the blur. She made herself look at Sten, who had pulled his sword off of his back. He and Shale were speaking as they waited on her.

"I know," she replied, and her voice was somehow tighter. The words hurt coming out of her throat. She didn't let herself stop there. "I know, and it is my fault. I can't take that away."

"You could let him go—"

"Do you want to hear what I want or no, Zevran?" She reached up, pushed her hair back, and immediately he moved to catch her hair between his fingers. He braided it wordlessly, tight and even and designed to keep out of her face. He tied it with the band he'd had around his own hair.

That made her chest hurt.

"Tell me this wish then. Whatever could you desire from me on this morning?"

His voice was hard, tense and angry, and she closed her eyes for a moment before she turned to look at him, to face him. He was paler than she'd ever seen him before. She reached up and brushed her fingers against his cheek, and she leaned in close, just short of kissing him. "I want you to take care of Alistair for me, Zevran," she whispered.

He flinched, his eyes darting away from her, but he didn't move. She pressed just a little closer to him. He had taught her this. He had honed her into this thin knife of a weapon and taught her to slide right between the ribs when she spotted an opening. She licked her lips, and when he was glancing back at her, she drew a breath.

"Please."

He made a low noise, jerking back from her, his hair falling around his face. He looked soft in the sunlight, dreamy, like they were in the Fade all over again. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to feel his heartbeat and reassure herself that this, no matter how surreal and how awful and how twisted, was real. He was here, and she would soon be nothing more than a footnote in Ferelden's history.

Would they forget that she was a mage, eventually? Would they forget that she had fled her destiny only to realize that she was running straight into its arms? Did it matter?

He bit his lip, and then he nodded. It wasn't enough. She reached out and caught his wrist, pulling him close to her this time. She brought the back of his hand up to brush against her cheek, and her eyes closed.

"I need you to promise. Promise you'll take care of him."

He was quiet for long enough that she nearly doubted her read on the situation. Then he blew out a breath, and he whispered, "I promise, Solona. I will take care of Alistair. Until he can manage on his own."

She smiled, her eyes easing open. "Thank you," she murmured, and she did move then, leaned forward and touched her lips to his. She reached into her waistband. The letter she'd written for Alistair earlier felt like she'd written it days ago. She slid her fingers along the crease before she pressed it into Zevran's hands as she drew back from him.

Before he could react, she turned away from him, and she headed toward Sten and Shale. Rabbit bounded up beside them, and all they were waiting on was her. She didn't look back at Zevran but once, just as she was slipping in through the gates. He was still standing there, in the field, hair blowing across his face without the band to keep it back.

She fought for what felt like hours within Denerim's walls, and the sun climbed in the sky, until finally, they were on top of the Fort, and the dragon roared at them. Her chest was swelling, almost ready to burst from the music that she could hear pouring off of the thing. The melody was wrong, corrupted and destroyed, and had it been right, she might not have been able to resist it. She still wanted to touch it. She wanted to lay her hand on the flank of the dragon and feel its breathing and make her own body respond and follow its lead. But then it roared and Sten shook her, and she jerked back into herself, focusing on the fight at hand. She directed her companions the way she always did, the way they had long since learned to follow. After two years with them, she would have been disappointed in anything less.

Her moment came, blinding and bright, because her hound had the dragon by the throat. Solona cast her staff aside, let it fall from her fingers during a battle for the first time in her life. She wouldn't need it, and, thanks to the fact that Zevran had hacked off the bottom of her robes, she could move. She could break into a run toward the dragon.

_In war, victory._

She jerked the dragon-bone dagger that Zevran had given her from her hip. She flipped it smoothly in her hand the way she'd never been able to under Leliana's trained eye in the camp. Her finger brushed the inscription— Alistair had secreted the blade from her and had just one word, _Warden_ , inscribed; nothing else had suited it— and then she charged.

_In peace, vigilance._

She slipped in the blood, and she slid on her back, air knocked from her chest and gasping. She just kept moving, sliding. She was under the beast, still struggling to shake off her dog— faithful mabari, faithful Rabbit— and Sten shouted even as Shale pounded on the dragon's side. She stared up at it, at the sensitive skin and the fact that she could hear its blood rushing through it.

_In death, sacrifice._

She plunged the dagger home— a certain artistry to the deed, Zevran had once said— and the dragon screamed, jerked, sending her blade only deeper. Then it bucked and the dagger laid it open, the dragon-bone blade glowing a brilliant blue from the taint in everything around her. Blood gushed over her skin, and she jerked just as much as the dragon. She screamed and bucked, and she couldn't let go of the dagger. She couldn't do anything but feel the archdemon dying.

Then the fire was in her, under her skin and not just where the blood was touching her, not just where her flesh was hissing and sizzling. She sobbed, helpless under the weight of the dragon as it roared and collapsed. She was dying.

No. She'd always been dead. This was her gift, her last redeeming moment when she could save everyone else.

Everything was too bright, and she could feel the fire anew in her. Something too big and too bright and too much tried to force its way into her body. She wasn't giving up though, wasn't letting it take her. Her eyes fluttered and she could see shadows. She could see that blurring, lurching world of the Fade at the edges of her senses. She didn't want to go.

_In death._

She didn't want to go.

_Sacrifice._


	2. Yesterday, I died.  Tomorrow's bleeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to theLiterator for proofreading this chapter for me! And hey, look, chapter two, and I have already massively departed from _Shades of Gray_!

It was warm out. Alistair slid to one knee, his hand cradling the narrow blade she'd killed the archdemon with. It was the dagger she'd killed herself with. The weather was warm and flowers were in bloom.

He'd picked one just the other day on the march from Redcliffe to Denerim. He had tucked it in the loose band that kept her hair out of her face. Zevran had outclassed him of course, because only a moment later, he had sauntered up beside them. A bracelet was half-fashioned in his hands and as he worked, he held the flowers by their stems in his teeth. Both gifts had delighted her equally, if he was honest with himself, and she had laughed.

He'd known that it would be the last time he heard the sound from her, had drunk long and deep of it. He had slid his hand around her waist as Zevran pointed out a bird that Alistair had told him the name of only a day before. She had been happy for that moment. They all had been.

He pushed a hand against his chest, his teeth gritting as heat pricked in the backs of his eyes. He was clutching the dagger too tightly. It made his fingers hurt, made him want to adjust his grip, but he couldn't bring himself to let go of it. _Warden_. He'd had inscribed on the blade only a few weeks after she'd found it. Never before had he hated that word quite as much. A low, strangled sound was in the back of his throat. It wasn't until a hand fell to rest on his shoulder that he realized he'd been making the noise aloud.

He glanced up as Zevran crouched down. One of Zevran's hands brushed against Alistair's cheek, wiping away— was he crying?

He hadn’t been able to cry for her yet. He must have been close to it or Zevran wouldn't have been frowning. He wouldn't have shushed him and pulled him in close. Alistair didn't have the strength to pull away from him. If anyone else understood this aching emptiness in his chest, it would be Zevran.

Even so, he wasn't someone for Zevran to coddle. He wasn't a child in need of comfort, and he made himself straighten back up. He tightened his grip on the dagger in his hands. For a moment, the sheath was in dire danger of bending under the force of his grip.

Then Zevran pried his hands away and set the dagger on the ground in front of Alistair. He rubbed over Alistair's fingers. Alistair wished he could have hit Zevran in that moment. He wished he could have tapped into that anger and dislike he had managed to hold on to for so long. Maybe that would have made him feel better. Anything would have been better than submitting to this. Anything would be better than letting Zevran take care of him.

“Leliana's gone,” Zevran said, and Alistair dragged his gaze to the dragon again. It had taken twelve Circle mages a few hours to move it from the top of Fort Drakon. The body hissed, and the blood foamed and frothed when it came into contact with anything. Figures shifted the massive corpse to send the blood gushing into huge containers. Probably magicked containers spelled against dissolving under the blood they held. Two more figures directed the chaos, and Griffons emblazoned their cloaks. The cloaks were the same Warden blue as Alistair's.

“The Chantry came and secreted her away last night. From what I understand, she is to oversee the reconstruction of the temple that houses Andraste's Ashes.” Zevran worked Alistair's fingers, dispelling the cramps that had set in there. Alistair watched him work. When he didn't say anything, Zevran glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. “She will be happy with that, no? A calling for her to work at now that her other is over.”

She would be happy with that, and there was no doubt that she would rise within the ranks of the Chantry sisters. Especially if the quarrelsome spirit that guarded the ashes took a liking to her.

“There is another celebration tonight,” Zevran continued. Alistair could picture the expression that Zevran would wear if Alistair did punch him. “The Queen has requested your presence. I think it might be politic for you to attend.”

Alistair looked up at him, then back out toward the dragon. He could feel Zevran sighing as he let Alistair's hands slide from his own. He took the dagger before Alistair could reach for it again.

He shouldn't have let them bury her with her cloak. It would be much softer to hold onto than that bloody dagger.

“There will be wine, of course, and you needn't say anything if you don't wish it. Just sit by the Queen and nod when she speaks to you, yes? She will be content with that, I think.”

Alistair waited for another minute, but when Zevran didn't leave him, he nodded. Satisfied with that, Zevran leaned back.

“Will Oghren be there?” Alistair's voice was rough from disuse. He'd spoken her eulogy, had almost cried during that, but he hadn't spoken since. He hadn't thought anything more important than ignoring the way words stuck in his throat until he could dislodge them. This wasn't worth the speaking either, but when it was Zevran it was easier. Zevran was as wounded as Alistair was, and the bastard damn well should have been hurting. She wouldn't have done this had he not shaped her into it.

Zevran hesitated, and then crouched back down. His dark eyes were sharp as they raked over Alistair, and his lips thinned, pressed together. “Alistair, Oghren enlisted in the Denerim army a few days ago. Anora is considering naming him one of her generals, given his contributions. In fact, she is considering Sten as well. I told you this two days ago.”

Alistair's brow furrowed. Two days ago, that had been... a day after her funeral? Perhaps. He couldn't remember. Everything blurred together with the wine anyway. The only thing marking the days for him were the figures hauling away dragon pieces as they bled it dry. Soon, there would be nothing left, and it would be as though the archdemon hadn't ever been here.

It would be as though Solona had never died under it.

He reached for the dagger, but Zevran did not hand it back. His eyes narrowed on Zevran, on the way that those dark eyes were studying him. Then he sighed, and he shook his head. “I don't remember. It doesn't matter anyway.”

Zevran reached out then, grasped Alistair's arm and hauled him up to his feet. Alistair couldn't remember when Zevran had gotten so strong.

“Wynne and Shale left this morning, heading for Tevinter.” He guided Alistair back toward Denerim proper, and Alistair didn't want to go. He didn't want to go to a room that was too big for him. He should have been sharing with his fellow Warden, with his lover. He didn't want to head back before he had to.

Zevran had apparently decided that he had to.

“It's just as well,” Alistair said lowly. “Nothing left for them here.”

That wasn't true. Wynne could have taken up the mantle of First Enchanter had she wanted to. Maybe she did want it. She'd had the same vision Solona had of restructuring the Circle. They wanted the Templars and the Chantry working with the mages more. But if anyone ever discovered that she was possessed, even though it was by a benevolent spirit instead of a malevolent one... They would kill her. Perhaps it was better that she'd left.

“True enough. ... Alistair, Wardens arrived from Orlais.”

“Saw them bleeding out the archdemon,” Alistair replied, waving one hand back. They wanted to be able to make more Wardens, presumably. Every Joining chalice needed a drop of archdemon blood to give it enough corruption to risk death. “It won't take them long to finish it now.”

“They are... determined, yes, but I did not intend to speak with you on their bleeding of the archdemon. They are from Orlais, Alistair,” Zevran said, and he'd stopped moving. He stared at Alistair with those narrowed eyes. He said it like that meant something, like Alistair should know what he meant by it. Alistair stared back at him, his eyes narrowing. For a long moment, they stayed like that, Zevran's fingers wrapped around Alistair's arm. The wind picked up around them and sent Zevran's blond hair fluttering around his face.

There was no amusement in that face now. There hadn't been since she died, and so help him, Alistair counted that as a victory. He wanted Zevran hurting. He wanted someone to hurt, to feel something, anything, since all Alistair felt was numb. He hadn't even managed to cry for her, not since speaking her eulogy. He couldn't have cried then, not in public, not in front of the Queen and Zevran and Oghren and Wynne and Leliana. Nothing had come once he was alone though. Nothing but tightness in his chest and a tension that wouldn't leave.

The corners of Zevran's mouth tightened. Alistair reached up, his fingers stroking down Zevran's forehead, catching his hair and tucking it back behind one ear. Zevran didn't stop him, didn't avert his eyes the way she would have, but he sighed and shook his head.

“They are Orlesian Wardens, Alistair. They represent Weisshaupt.”

That Alistair understood. It meant they'd request to see the Queen soon; they'd ask for their proper place within the country. Ask for...

He felt something in him go still. They'd ask for Soldier's Peak. Soldier's Peak, and that was supposed to be hers. It was the place Solona had fallen in love with, and so help him if anyone else was going to take that.

Zevran nodded, and his hold on Alistair's arm tightened. It made Alistair look at him again. “Good. You understand. Anora has yet to meet with them, Alistair. You could—”

“I can't. I am no leader, Zevran,” Alistair answered immediately. It was the same thing he'd said the first morning he'd woken after Ostagar.

(He'd woken covered in Darkspawn blood. It had still tinged where it touched his skin. Morrigan had loomed over him, one eyebrow arched like she had any right to judge him. The stench of death had been thick on him that morning. No, it had been thick every morning since if he were completely honest with himself. Wardens only had one thing to do. They sowed death. They had done nothing but kill and fight and push for this, and now that they had it... She was supposed to be here. She was the leader, not him. It had never been him.)

Nevertheless, Zevran shook his head and shushed Alistair, like he was a small child who needed the reassurance. Like it was Zevran who needed to support him and tell him what to say. Then again, if anyone knew how to work a figurehead, it was Zevran.

(In the Landsmeet, it had been Zevran who had offered the other option. It was a third option, one that neither warden had considered: they could leave Anora where she was. They could buy her. There was no need to upset the nobles any more than Alistair had already managed. Loghain's blood had still dripped from Alistair's sword, and the rhythmic splatter kept time as effectively as any clock. The idea had horrified both wardens then. Now, Alistair wondered if maybe there hadn't been some wisdom in that. Not in buying Anora. That idea crawled under his skin, but of keeping her in... Well, if not in actual debt. No Fereldan would keep a debt open for long; it was a matter of honor to offer ways to repay them as soon as possible. But of keeping her thinking favorably of them. Alistair's next breath was a little sharper. 'Them'. There was no 'them'. There hadn't been since—)

“It is important that you speak to her,” Zevran said. He guided Alistair back toward the city, toward those empty rooms that were too big for just him. “If you speak to her first, I believe she will be reasonable. Perhaps give you command of the recruits she wishes to offer to the wardens. They,” and he didn't have to clarify who 'they' referred to here, “had discussed this already. She promised recruits. Not to mention basic supplies for Soldier’s Peak and horses and dogs. I know how you Fereldans are about your dogs.”

Alistair snorted. That was a jab at his sleeping arrangements, maybe. Rabbit, her mabari, had slept across the foot of Alistair's bed since her death. Alistair supposed the poor bastard was lucky that he hadn't died with his mistress. He’d only had a broken leg and needed bandaging and care, but... Alistair wondered if Rabbit didn't understand how he felt better than anyone else did. The dog knew what it meant when someone left you behind.

“She also promised some monetary aid for the keep, and I expect that you will be stubborn about it, but—”

“Whatever you think, Zevran,” Alistair said as he dislodged Zevran's fingers from his arm. Zevran went still beside him, tilting his head as he looked Alistair over. His eyes narrowed, and one eyebrow raised. He didn't believe Alistair, most likely, and Alistair didn't give a damn. Zevran was the one who knew what they needed, and by the Maker, when had it become 'them'? He sighed, reaching up to rub his hand over his face. “You're coming back to the keep, aren't you?”

They hadn't ever spoken about this before. This was the first time they'd looked at one another and admitted that neither of them had anywhere else to go. They'd both thrown their lots in with her. They had counted on her being able to figure out where they were going. They had assumed that they'd be the ones who died if worst came to worst.

“I might as well,” Zevran finally said. He looked away from Alistair and focused on the dagger he was still holding. He flipped it, the motion as easy as when Leliana had done it. “You and her hound would probably starve yourselves to death if I did not.”

His voice was wrong for that kind of playful jab. There was nothing teasing or affectionate in him when he said that, and Alistair glanced over at him. He frowned as he saw how serious Zevran looked. “Rabbit would hardly starve himself,” he countered. It was easier, focusing on something that he knew he could actually answer. “That dog can eat almost anything.”

Zevran looked back at him, and the slightest of smiles touched his mouth. “That hound eats everything he can catch. He eats more than most dogs, even in this country.”

“All Wardens do,” Alistair replied immediately. He wished he hadn't just as soon as the words had left his lips. Zevran went still beside him. He wasn't looking at Alistair, but he'd gone so still that Alistair wasn't certain he breathed. Before Alistair could work up the nerve to reach out for him, Zevran took a step away from him, nodding.

“That they do,” he said lowly. “Listen, Alistair, do not forget this dinner tonight. It would be immensely helpful for you to attend.”

_And don't be drunk._

Zevran didn't say it. He hadn't even mention it except the reassurance that there would be wine. But then, he didn't have to. The words hung between them as surely as if Zevran had written them there. Alistair's drinking had gotten worse in the past few days.

He nodded. “I'll be there, Zevran,” he said with a sigh. He held out his hand, wanting the dagger back. For a second, he thought Zevran was going to hand it over, but no. The bastard just flipped it again, tossed it up into the air and caught it. Then he shoved it between his belt and the cloth of his tunic. The dagger might not have stayed there if Zevran hadn't kept his hand on it.

“Good,” he replied, and then he headed back to the castle and left Alistair standing on the hill. His cloak swirled around him, caught in the same breeze that had been playing with Zevran's hair. With Zevran gone, he could hear the Orlesians shouting orders. Ordering the containers moved as they bled out the dragon. They were definitely planning on making new Wardens. They would see Anora and demand only the Maker knew what from her for themselves. They would depend of the goodwill the Fereldans, the fondness they held for the woman who had saved their families and their country. The people would do almost anything for the Wardens, and if it got out that Anora had denied them anything...

His hand clenched. The Orlesians hadn't been there when Riordan had told them what price Wardens paid to end the Blight. They hadn't been there when Ferelden needed them. He wasn't about to let them get anything that should have been hers.

* * *

She was a legend. She'd been dead not even a week, and already, everyone was retelling her stories. They made her bigger, made her somehow more, as though she hadn't been enough in person. It hadn't been so bad when Leliana had still been in the city, but with her gone, Alistair could barely stand it.

(She always attended these celebration dinners. She always carried a flute or a lute or something to mark her as the bard she'd once been. Eventually, someone would realize who she was. They'd realize that she was one of those who had traveled with the Warden. Who better to tell those tales than a traveling companion who had seen it all? And Leliana, Maker bless her, didn't embellish much. She told the truth. She told the stories the way Solona had wanted them told, the way they'd all talked about from time to time. Such thoughts had been an easy distraction from the death around them day in and day out.)

Alistair reached for his glass of wine, his frown deepening. Several soldiers held a place of honor at this feast because of exceptional bravery.

(Alistair wasn't sure how Anora had decided what made someone's bravery 'exceptional'. There were people across all ranks though, so he supposed she must have come up with some relatively fair means of measure.)

Some of the soldiers who had only seen Solona a few times were exchanging stories. It was the same sort of stories all soldiers exchanged, exaggerated tales of heroism. It still turned Alistair's stomach, and his mood must have been noticeable. It was just a heartbeat before Zevran dropped into a chair beside him and plunged into the talk.

He wasn't correcting them, but then, he didn't have to. The elf who had traveled with her was well known because he wanted it that way. He took every opportunity he got to place himself in conversations where no elf would dare, just so he could remind everyone that he didn't fit their opinions of elves. He made certain that everyone knew, without saying so much, of course, that the Queen valued his opinion. That she knew the Warden Solona had trusted his opinion. The mixture of that anger and fear that spread across those noble faces upon that realization was often comical.

But Zevran wasn't running that game of his tonight. He added his own stories into the mix, telling them what he knew of her and how she'd been around them. Alistair should have been grateful for Zevran's presence. He took a drink of his wine, and when he glanced up, Anora watched him, brows drawn and a slight frown marring her face. Ser Cauthrien stood just behind her, the Queen's right hand, stoic and blank to most of the people in the dining hall. But Alistair knew how to read soldiers. He knew how to read the lines of someone standing at attention in far more armor than was necessary.

She disapproved of the way he drew Anora's attention from the nobles sitting closest to her. Alistair managed a slight, tight smile to them both. He finished off the glass of wine, and almost before it touched the table, an elven girl leaned over his shoulder to pour him another. It was just another reminder of how infamous his drinking had become. The tension in his shoulders tightened, but he managed a murmured ‘thank you’ to her, and he stared at the plate in front of him.

Lamb and pea stew sat on the table. Roasted birds, breads and who knew how many other stews were further down, and Alistair didn't want any of this Fereldan fare. Maker's breath, he didn't even want to be here. He picked at his food on the plate though, and the moment he had a chance, he slipped some of it down under the table. Rabbit leaned against his leg, still bandaged, but he had stopped being sick so often. Alistair thought it safe enough to let him sit in the hall with them, so long as he stayed out of sight. Even in Ferelden, dogs didn't exactly sit at the table.

He didn't feed him anything rich though, not after the healer— nothing short of the royal dogs warranted getting mages looking after them, but Anora had decided that this dog, _her_ dog, would have the best care available— had warned him against feeding the poor beast too much. The sickness would come back if he did. So Rabbit chewed on the drumstick Alistair slipped him, and Alistair petted his head. Then he returned his attention to the meal.

The soldier sitting closest to him offered him a platter. Alistair took from it and passed it on to Zevran without even a glance to see what was there. He ate without thinking, sating the endless hunger that he'd had since his Joining.

“Ser,” came a low voice, and Alistair blinked. The soldier who had passed him the platter stared at Alistair with wide eyes. "That... is a lot of food. Are you well?”

Alistair didn't have a chance to respond before Zevran leaned across him to offer the boy a wide grin. “Never eaten with a Warden, have you?”

(That couldn't be right. He must simply look young. There was no way that a boy would have displayed the ‘exceptional bravery’ that got one invited into this dinner.)

The young man smiled in response, shaking his head before he looked back up at Alistair. Alistair squirmed in discomfort from how closely he was being studied. “No, sers,” he said, and Alistair felt himself smiling at the idea of anyone calling Zevran ‘ser’. It must have entertained Zev as well, because he laughed, one hand darting up to flick his hair from his face.

“He called me ser! Alistair, I like this one. Might I keep him?”

Alistair rolled his eyes, but his smile was tugging itself just a little wider. “I am hardly your keeper, Zevran. If you wish to keep someone, I believe you should speak to them.”

“So, that is a ‘yes’ from our fine Warden,” Zevran said immediately. “What is your name?”

“Luthanuel, ser,” the youth replied. “Luth to my friends.”

Well, to what precious few of them might have been left after this Blight.

The words hung in the air between them, and when Zevran plowed right through them to ask something, Alistair turned his attention away. The other Wardens sat at a table across the room. When he spotted them, he tuned Zevran and Luthanuel both out. They dressed plainly, wearing doublets that looked a little worse for wear. That might have been a bad move when invited to dine with the Queen, but it was better than dressing up and reminding everyone that they were Orlesian. That was probably why they were speaking as little as possible, and Alistair frowned. What exactly had brought them in the first place?

Duncan had wanted Orlesian reinforcements. Alistair could remember that. He'd sent letter after letter about it, tried to talk the King into it, and it had done nothing but get him killed. Each letter had increased Loghain's paranoia, until the bastard had snapped and destroyed the country.

It was hard to believe that Duncan had been hanging his hopes on nothing more than two Wardens. Or were they the only ones who had stayed after the Blight had ended? Perhaps the dozens of Wardens Duncan had promised had turned back the moment they felt that it was over. If they had, it made these two unusual, made them dangerous.

A sharp elbow jabbed in his side, and then Zevran was reaching over him to grab one of the bowls on the table. Alistair scowled at him, but Zevran didn't do anything but offer him a faint smile. “Did you want some more, Alistair?” he asked, agreeably enough, and Alistair wrinkled his nose at him. Zevran's smile widened, and then there was more stew in his bowl, and he rolled his eyes and sighed. He couldn't sneak the stew to Rabbit under the table.

“All you had to do was ask, Alistair,” Zevran murmured, and then he passed the bowl on down the table. “The younger one is Adrien. He is Orlesian born and somewhat ignorant of your fine Fereldan ways,” he added. It took Alistair a second to realize that Zevran was talking about the Wardens. The ones that Alistair had been staring at. He looked at them again as Zevran drifted back into conversation with someone nearby. He traded some joke; the one about the human, elf, and dwarf always delighted soldiers.

The younger one had darker hair, almost black, and it fell around his face. Alistair wondered if the Warden kept it braided in one of those fancy Orlesian styles. Leliana had been clever with such things. If he did, he'd thought better than to display his heritage here in Ferelden in so obvious a way.

He was smart then, or if nothing else, maybe his friend was. Adrien laughed as he leaned across the table. He clearly made a good impression on those sitting around him. Alistair almost wished he hadn't. He wished the Orlesian had stirred up nothing but anger just so Alistair would have had an excuse to get into a fight. Punching him square in the middle of that pretty face sounded satisfying.

“From what I understand,” Zevran added, looking at Alistair once more, “he is the one who will be petitioning Queen Anora later this evening. He has requested an audience.”

Alistair nodded, brow furrowing. An audience with the Queen meant one thing: they were planning on requesting control. They were going to ask to rebuild the Wardens here in Ferelden. They were going to ask for Soldier's Peak.

“The older one, Clovis, is more prudent than his charge." Zevran pitched his voice exactly for Alistair's ears, and not for the first time, Alistair wondered how he managed that. It was some kind of Crow training, but he could only smile at the idea of a younger Zevran sitting still for any sort of lessons. “He will not be attending the audience this evening. It is interesting, no? That they have some sort of disagreement on when to approach whatever it is they plan on asking from the lovely lady?”

Interesting, but it didn't matter. Alistair's gaze cut over to the older man sitting beside Adrien. Adrien's doublet was clearly worn, but it didn't look like Clovis' did. Clovis wore a doublet that fit him perfectly, and he seemed at ease in it. It was just as old as Adrien's though, and Alistair realized he must have put Adrien in one of his own older doublets. Perhaps Adrien didn't keep anything but Orlesian clothing. Clovis didn't appear to be Orlesian. At least, not any Orlesian Alistair had heard of, not with those heavier set features and the rugged aspect around him. He looked like a man who had lived through a war. Maybe several wars.

“He is an Anders, you know,” Zevran said, and he moved food around on his plate without actually eating. In fact, Alistair wasn't certain he had seen Zevran eat anything yet. Rabbit had wedged himself between Alistair and Zevran. Bastard elf was slipping him his food. Alistair would have to make certain not to feed Rabbit any more than he already had. He hardly wanted to spend the night cleaning up the dog's sick from the bedding.

“He's from the Underfelts?” Alistair asked, but he could see that. There was something untamed and feral about Clovis. Something that said Alistair would prefer not to fight him.

“It is what the serving girls have told me. I have not had the pleasure of speaking to him myself, and there is something funny about that, actually. They have not spoken to any of us.”

It was the way Zevran said 'us' that made Alistair glance over at him. He frowned at the way Zevran looked at him, one eyebrow raised and a wry smile on his lips. He meant any of those who had traveled with Solona then. It was the only thing that he could have meant when he looked that damn smug and wounded all at once. Alistair nodded. That was unusual. He'd have expected the Wardens to speak to him first at the least.

But he wasn't planning on allowing Adrien to see Anora before him, so it didn't matter. He dropped his attention to his plate again. He ate more because he knew he should. He'd need it to soak up the wine that he couldn't seem to stop drinking so much of. The last thing he needed was to be drunk when he spoke to Anora.

He had just cleared his bowl when Anora stood, and that motion was all that the dining hall needed to go silent. She stood, the motion hinting at a grace that most women didn't have. Alistair recognized the weariness in her eyes though. It was in the way she kept a few fingers on the table to balance herself. She was as exhausted as any of them, as well she should have been. She had donned her father's armor same as the rest of them. She had given the speech and plunged into the fight to drive the darkspawn back out of Denerim. She had bled for her country, as a Queen should. She didn't have to do anything as crude as clear her throat; instead, she offered the hall a warm smile.

“All of you here were invited to this dinner because of the courage you showed in defending our country. It pains me to think that I might need to ask more of you, but I feel that I must. If there is anything we should learn from these past events..." Her voice cracked. Alistair wasn't even certain that he'd heard it. Maybe he'd imagined it. “It is that we owe the Grey Wardens our lives. We owe them the support of Fereldan blood and Fereldan land because without them— without the Fereldan Warden who sacrificed her life for us— it is likely there wouldn't a Ferelden at all to pledge any sort of support to their order. Ferelden will not be unprepared for the next Blight. Never again will we allow ourselves to be so close to dependent on foreign nations accompanying Wardens into our country.” She squared her shoulders, leaning back as she lifted her goblet with a wider smile.

“We have a Fereldan Warden sitting here in this hall with us,” she said, motioning with her glass. Something cold trickled down Alistair's back. The stew sat too heavy in his stomach, and he wished that he hadn't eaten anything at all. “A brave man who traveled alongside Warden Solona. He helped teach her and shape her into the Warden who could save us. I can think of no other man to take over the training of more Wardens within Ferelden. Grey Warden Alistair,” she said, and she looked at him. He was frozen though, unable to breathe until Zevran's ground his heel on the top of Alistair's foot. He lurched to his feet, and Anora's smile stayed exactly in place, as though perhaps she had painted it on. “Alistair,” she repeated, and he dipped in half a bow to her. “I have ten men from the guard who have asked to join your brotherhood. Will you take them?”

For less than a second, Alistair wasn’t sure he could manage to speak at all. Then that damned heel dug into his foot again, and he sucked in a breath and he managed, "Of course, your Majesty." His voice was low, tenser than he'd expected, but Anora nodded, inclining her head toward him just a bit.

"Very well. Then, Warden-Commander Alistair," and her eyes snapped to the other two Wardens. She was daring them to argue with her, perhaps. "You will need a place to train—"

"Soldier's Peak," he said immediately. He realized too late that he had just cut off the Queen in the middle of her speech. He felt the pressure of Zevran's foot let up, but he didn't dare look at him. He didn't want to see if he just fouled this up more than he'd intended. "Please, excuse me, your Majesty," he said, and his voice had managed to tighten further. His throat was aching. "Soldier’s Peak has traditionally belonged to the Wardens though, and..."

And Solona had fallen in love with it. She had spent hours talking about what it would be like to live there on those cliffs. She'd imagined the order being rebuilt all around her there. Alistair failed to protect her. She had taken that choice away from him without so much as a by-your-leave. He could damned well claim her home if nothing else.

Anora must have seen something in his face that told her why he wanted it, because the smile she gave him was sad. "Soldier's Peak it is then, Warden-Commander," she said. "As I said, I have ten men from the guard who have requested to join you. I will also supply you with horses and dogs and basic supplies, as previously agreed." She studied him for another moment, and then her attention shifted to the room around them. She lowered her goblet to the table. The entire room watched her move. The room took a breath only when her goblet touched the table with a soft 'clink'. She straightened back up, squaring her shoulders and smiling at them all. "And I would like to ask that any of you here tonight consider joining our Wardens as well."

She must have had a longer speech prepared. Something that was no doubt designed to inspire everyone to their fullest potential. She didn't need it. No sooner had she'd spoken than Alistair felt the soldier beside him shove his chair back and stand.

"I would like to join you, Warden-Commander," he said, and Alistair stared down at him. There was nothing but brightness in Luthanuel's eyes. Nothing but eager pleasure and the rush of excitement that came from surviving a battle you knew all too well that you should have died in. The poor fool was still riding a high from their victory, no doubt. Before Alistair could ask him to think about it, more men and women stood, pushing chairs back and looking at him. He met their gazes for a moment, and he shifted his foot before Zevran could drive his heel into it again.

The motion caused a slight snort from Zevran, and Alistair swallowed. His tongue felt thick, clumsy in his mouth. It didn't fit anymore, not when his mouth was so dry, and his chest struggled to get enough air that he could think. He nodded, and when his lips parted, he didn't remember deciding to say anything. Words still tumbled out of him. "It would be my honor."

It was a practiced response, a response that he shouldn't have given any of them. They were all idiots for wanting to do this, wanting to come into an order that demanded everything.

Solona would have been pleased. She would have stood there beside him, flush with excitement. He could almost see the smile she'd have worn, could feel the weight of her fingers against his hand. She'd have leaned close enough to whisper, 'We're really doing it. We're rebuilding, Alistair.'

Funny how, a few days ago, that thought would have given him a rush of pleasure too. Now it just left him hollow, left a sharp pain working through his chest as he met Luthanuel's gaze. The youth was so excited to join the Grey Wardens, to be a part of the order that Duncan had been set on rebuilding.

He looked away from them all then, his eyes darting across the hall to the other Wardens. Adrien frowned, but when the applause began to ripple through the room, he joined in. Clovis, on the other hand, was unreadable. He inclined his head, and he clapped as well before he pushed himself to his feet.

"Warden-Commander," he said, and there was no trace of an Orlesian accent to his voice. Adrien twisted around to look up at him, and Alistair felt Zevran's foot brush against his. He wasn't pressing hard this time though, so Alistair must be doing things right so far. "We would like to join you on your journey to Soldier's Peak as well."

Alistair nodded. He had expected that they would, and he felt trapped with Clovis asking so publicly. There was no way Alistair could have told him 'no' without seeming unreasonable. Especially since Clovis didn't particularly look like the Orlesian that Alistair had been expecting. A glance to Anora, and Alistair's attention stayed on the tension in her jaw line for a heartbeat. Then she lifted her goblet once more, and the hall broke out into cheers. Glasses raised and slammed together enthusiastically. No one sat until she did. The moment that she lowered herself back into the chair, people dropped into their own with laughter and the same talking that had filled the hall before Anora's speech.

Alistair was one of the last to sit, and when he did, he felt Rabbit pushing against his leg. His hand dropped low enough for just a moment to pet the dog before he reached for his wine glass. Luthanuel leaned over and took the decanter from the girl who moved to refill the glasses.

"When will we leave, Warden-Commander?" he asked, and Alistair watched the wine fill the glass until Luthanuel pulled the decanter away. It was Zevran who finally answered him, a faint sigh in his voice as Alistair worked on emptying that glass too.

"Tomorrow, most likely," Zevran told him, and he looked at Alistair for a moment. The wine was enough to make Alistair's head light, to make that terrible tightness in his chest ease. "Perhaps the day after," he added. Then he spooned something else onto Alistair's plate without so much as asking if Alistair wanted more.

Alistair stared at the plate for a moment before he shook his head and pushed his glass toward Luthanuel. The youth didn't need more prompting before he poured more wine.


	3. Is there no one to watch over us?

It was, in fact, four days later before they left for Soldier's Peak. Alistair spent the first day sleeping off the wine, and the next day, they had to pack up their crew. All in all, they ended up with twenty -five men and women who had volunteered for the Wardens. Packing up twenty-five men and women took time. And that didn't mention how long it took for the Queen to get twenty-five matching gray horses. The dogs were perhaps the easiest thing to get. They came with a pair of handlers content to let them roam without leash or harness. They commanded the beasts with little more than words.

Some days, Ferelden gave Zevran a headache. He would never get used to this country and its people. Especially when he watched a pack of dogs, each one the size of Rabbit. Zevran had convinced himself that Rabbit was perhaps the exception to Fereldan dogs. Solona could have enchanted him to be bigger, fiercer, smarter. He had ignored her laughing at the idea, but now, faced with a row of dogs all just like him, he had to admit that he was wrong. Rabbit was not an exceptional beast here in this country. He was part of a legacy of dog breeding and training that no other country could match. The dogs wore their armor better than most men. Those who wore no armor wore paint more intricate than any artwork Zevran had seen in the country thus far.

One of them had watched a child trying to mount a horse. The poor lad had been failing because he was too short to reach the stirrups. The dog had watched for several moments before he trotted over to the horse and crouched down. He let the boy climb on him first before he stood to put him high enough to get in the saddle. It had been unnerving, to say the least.

Zevran had to admit that if the entire country was like this, he could understand why the Maker had chosen to draw his bride from these people. They were a people who took what happened and carried on, no matter how much sorrow came from it. They were the only people who could have shaped Andraste.

As for him and these horses, someone must have taken pity on him. There was a lovely mare brought out the moment they were due to saddle up and leave. Unlike the Wardens' horses, she was not gray. Instead, she was the color of an Antivan gold coin with a pale, almost white mane. Blonde and mild-mannered, or so the stablehand had assured him. Zevran wondered if it would be prudent to admit that he'd never ridden a horse for any true distance.

(He'd stolen one once. The beast had taken him clear across the city, stopping only when it had tripped over something. It had flung Zevran from the saddle, and he had landed in a heap of aching limbs and bruises. He'd been alive though, and that was all that mattered. He'd never tried stealing another one.)

Solona had not liked horses herself. She had never learned to ride. Or so he assumed. Suddenly, he was aware of how much she'd always laughed about when he'd asked. She'd always promised to tell him 'later'. They'd spent most of their time walking, hiking across Ferelden in some futile—

Only. It hadn't been futile. Of all their foolish dreams, they'd managed to do it. They'd defeated the Blight with a ragtag army of Dalish and werewolves and dwarves and mages and the Redcliffe guard. She'd managed to bring down the archdemon by herself. The Fates had decided that was all she was good for and taken her after that. Some part of him wondered if that wasn't for the best. Who knew what sort of chaos and change she could have brought about if she'd stayed in this world?

The mare was quiet as he stroked his fingers through her mane. He watched the recruits climb on their horses, packs strapped to the backs of saddles. The Queen had also gifted them mules, and they bore packs of their own. Most of the recruits could mount the horses, but Ferelden wasn't exactly horse country. If anything, it was dog country. What struck Zevran as odd was how comfortable the horses were around the dogs. They didn't even seem to notice them. He sighed, his fingers trailing out of the horse's mane.

" _Do not throw me, you hear, lovely lady? I need to make it to Soldier's Peak in one piece, and I'd prefer not to resort to riding double with someone_." His voice was low and stroked the syllables of his home tongue. He didn't want anyone else hearing this particular exchange. Horses were not mabari, after all, and they did not have the gift of understanding speech. Her ears flicked though, and he drew a breath as he hoisted himself up into the saddle. It wasn't as awkward as he'd feared, not after watching all the recruits manage. He blew out his breath as he reached for the reins. His fingers clutched at them, but before he could do anything, someone leaned in close to him.

"She'll probably follow without needing much direction," the stablehand said, patting the horse's neck. Zevran hesitated, wondering if he'd done something foolish, given away his inexperience with horses. The fellow grinned and tilted his head toward another horse trotting out of the stables. "She's smitten with the Commander's horse, you see. Follow that beast to the end of the world, if he started down that way."

Zevran glanced over his shoulder, and he could understand why. The horse was massive and black, and the stablehand held the bridle as Alistair looked it over. His hands pressed against muscled sides and legs in the tenderest touch that Zevran had seen in days. The beast must have met with his approval because he nodded. Then he was in the saddle almost before Zevran saw him move.

Alistair took the reins, nudging the horse into a walk away from the stablehand who had been holding it. Zevran tilted his head, watching as the horse moved without cues that Zevran could see. Whatever Alistair was doing, it worked. He brought the horse around to let him look out over the recruits. His gaze lingered near the back, where the two Wardens were. Zevran felt something prickle down his spine before he twisted in the saddle to look.

The two Wardens had someone with them, a young man with longer, dark hair that fell in a shaggy cut around his face. Clovis helped him into the saddle, and Alistair had gone still while looking at him. Zevran couldn't figure out why. While the youth looked familiar enough, he couldn't place the boy.

That was unnerving.

"Swiftfoot here will get you to the keep," the stablehand said, drawing Zevran's attention. He tilted his head toward Alistair's horse. "She'll follow Nightmist without too much coaxing, just you see." He let go of the bridle then, and Zevran clutched perhaps a little too tightly to the pommel of the saddle. He tensed his thighs to try to stay steady, but she moved easily enough that staying on wasn’t too difficult.

She walked a short way and then settled. Zevran drew a breath as he caught her reins and pretended that he had some idea of what he was doing. She stood near Alistair’s horse, and she fell in step with the others when they left, without any work from him. At least something went right.

* * *

After four days in the saddle, Zevran wanted to kill someone. Not because of the pain. He was a Crow, after all, and learning to ignore and work through pain had been an important set of lessons. But because killing someone would have let him feel competent again. He desperately wanted to feel competent at something aside from putting up his tent at night.

He hadn't actually fallen off the horse. _Yet_ , some part of him added every time he let himself think about it. He almost had, particularly when Alistair would wheel around at whatever caught his attention. Luthanuel rode close to Zevran, and he'd caught Zevran's arm to keep him in the saddle more than once. Zevran had expected to owe Luthanuel for that, but Luth never asked him for anything. Nothing more than stories, at least. He wanted to know everything about the Wardens that Zevran had traveled with. Zevran had indulged him a little by telling him some of the stories that he was asking about.

And there Alistair went, wheeling around again. This time, someone's voice in the back of the line caught his attention. Zevran had heard it too. It sounded familiar, like perhaps he should have known it, but he couldn't place it. Same as that face of the youth with the Wardens—

Zevran's horse dropped out of line to follow Alistair's without any encouragement from Zevran. He drew a breath as he saw Alistair coming up alongside the other Wardens. Their charge rode near them, as uncomfortable in the saddle as Zevran was. He didn't look as though he were aching too much though. It wasn't until Zevran came within earshot that he knew why.

"He is a blood mage," Alistair snapped, and Zevran's eyebrows shot up as he glanced back at the youth. He frowned, nudging the horse into picking up her speed just a little. He nodded to himself when it hit him who they had with them: Jowan. Solona's Jowan. He was the one foolish enough to flee the Circle with his Chantry-sworn initiate and lover.

He supposed that Jowan and his girl had been lucky. Solona had thought the girl's punishment harsh, but the girl had belonged to the Chantry. As such, the head Templar had been well within his rights to send her wherever he thought she needed to go. That Jowan had managed to use his blood magic to overpower the Templars and get out was impressive.

"It doesn't matter what he is," Adrien retorted. His voice was lower than Alistair's but no less determined. "We have decided to recruit him."

Alistair's hand tightened on those reins. He wasn't wearing gloves, so Zevran could see his white knuckles. There was a heartbeat of silence before he growled, "He won't be a Warden here in Ferelden."

Adrien laughed at Alistair's words. Zevran tried to coax his damn horse close enough to wedge himself between the Wardens. He couldn't get her to move fast enough though. Adrien leaned over and replied, "It is not your call, Warden-Commander. He can be a Warden in Orlais."

Zevran's eyes closed for a second, and he heard Alistair lunge out of the damn saddle at Adrien. He cracked one eye open just in time to see them both hit the ground. Adrien gasped because Alistair must have knocked the wind out of him. He reached up and slammed a fist into Alistair's cheek, and so help him, then the fight was on. The recruits stopped, caught up in two Grey Wardens, including the Warden-Commander himself, wrestling. Fists cracked into faces and wouldn't it be his luck if Alistair managed to hurt the other Warden?

They'd deem him unsuitable to command faster than he could protest. Then they'd send him wherever they sent Wardens needing reshaping. Weisshaupt, maybe. Zevran had no plans to go to Weisshaupt. There was nothing in the Anderfels that even remotely interested him.

He slid out of the saddle, ignoring the stabbing pain that accompanied the motion. He caught Luth's eyes across the tussle. An incline of his head was all it took for the youth to follow Zevran's lead in breaking up the fight.

Catching a hold of two grown men determined to do one another harm was never easy, but honestly, Zevran hadn't tried to break up a fight before. He'd always cheered them on, passing out wine and offering to collect bets on who would win. The flash of coin glinted in the corner of his eye, and he smiled grimly. It would seem that some things never changed. No matter where you were, no matter how noble or righteous the assembled parties were.

He managed to get between them, but the fight didn't stop until someone's fist connected to his jaw. He snarled and reached up to catch that wrist, digging his fingers into the tendons there. Alistair was the one who cried out, and Zevran didn't let up until Alistair had hit his knees. Once he had Alistair's attention, he glanced over at Adrien. Luthanuel had managed to get his arms around Adrien's shoulders and held his arms behind him. Adrien's dark hair had worked loose of that pretty braid that was so popular among Orlesian noblemen. It fell over those bright eyes, and he bared his teeth in a snarl that made Zevran raise an eyebrow. He stared between the two of them, and then he dipped his head down just a little to look at Alistair.

"I believe this can be settled later. Perhaps after we arrive at Soldier's Peak, no?" There was a smile on his lips. Alistair must have seen the anger in Zevran's face though, because he glared before he nodded. Zevran glanced back at Adrien, who was trying to shake Luthanuel off.

"This is hardly over," he snapped, and he bared his teeth at Zevran in a snarl. "He assaulted me—"

"I seem to remember some provocation there," Zevran retorted, raising an eyebrow. Luthanuel nodded before Zevran looked over, but he didn't get a chance to voice his agreement.

"Indeed there was," Clovis said. He watched with more interest that Zevran was comfortable with. Just what was he seeing? Clovis tilted his head at Adrien, who stopped struggling. Then his gaze cut to Alistair, who seemed torn between drawing away and going still under the weight of that look. Finally, Clovis looked at Zevran, and Zevran snorted, offering the man a grin.

"I believe it is Warden custom to subject themselves to the local law unless they are invoking the Right of Conscription, yes?" He already knew the answer to his question. He'd watched Wardens subject themselves to Antivan law, even when they didn't have to. When Clovis inclined his head, Zevran's grin widened. "Well then, Adrien. In Ferelden, the local law for dealing with honor blemishes tends to be a fight to the death. I would suggest you reconsider before you push this issue further... Unless the Order here in Ferelden has drastically increased in size since last I heard?"

None of the Wardens spoke, and Zevran decided that was more than enough agreement for now. He tightened his hold on Alistair's wrist, shifting enough that his fingers didn't dig into the tendons. Then he hauled Alistair up to his feet to tell him lowly, "We do not need this, Alistair. You should work on keeping your temper—"

Alistair scowled at him and jerked his arm back, and Zevran let it go with a sigh. Alistair stalked back off to his horse. More than one recruit tucked away a handful of coin they didn't have before as their horses broke into easy walks. Zevran met several curious gazes, and he drew a breath before he worked on getting back on his own horse. No doubt they wondered why an elf had the nerve to put himself in the middle of Warden affairs. She didn't want to wait for him. She wanted to follow Alistair and his horse. Zevran muttered to her, coaxing her into staying still.

Finally, when he could stand no more of her distracted steps, he snapped, "Do not push me, pretty lady. I might not cook much, but I do know how to make a fine horse meat stew," in Antivan. She blew out a sharp breath at him, almost a snort, but she held still long enough for him to get settled in the saddle. He stroked his fingers through her mane, and she immediately trotted after Alistair then.

That was to be the story of his life right there: let around by pretty, hardheaded women in love with Alistair. His chest ached at the thought, and he reached up to push his hair back from his face. He should have tied it back, gotten it out of the way.

Next time he wouldn't indulge in the sentimentality that had made him keep his hair loose.

"You know she won't speak back, don't you?" Luthanuel asked, and Zevran glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow.

"She might not be a mabari," he said, a grin spreading over his lips, "but she knows a threat when she hears one all the same. Most beasts do, after all."

"Mm... Are you implying what I think you're implying, ser? I'm afraid you turn too clever a phrase for me to keep up with," Luthanuel shot back, and Zevran laughed. It was bitter, a faint laugh that made Alistair tense. Zevran took a little more pleasure in that than he should have.

"Nonsense," he replied. "You keep up with clever phrases just fine."

"Perhaps. I don't believe I keep up with Wardens as well as you do though."

"You have not lived with a pair of them since you arrived in Ferelden either," Zevran murmured. He dropped his gaze from Alistair's back. "Not that it particularly applies, of course. He was not so... volatile with her. They had other problems."

"It isn't just that Wardens are short tempered then? That's what I've always heard," Luthanuel said, looking over at Zevran. He leaned forward in his saddle, his arms folded over the pommel. Zevran wondered if it would be as easy to get him out of the saddle as it looked. Then he shrugged.

"Perhaps. I think it is less that they are short tempered because they are Wardens and more that the kind of people Wardens recruit are likely to be short tempered." He let his voice raise a little as he spoke, his eyes cutting back over to Alistair's back. He enjoyed the way he could see tension working under those shoulders. "No nonsense allowed, you understand? They are all so serious and dreadfully dull."

At least he was reacting to something besides the Orlesian wardens. Zevran would take his victories wherever he got them.

* * *

It was midday when they finally arrived at Soldier's Peak. Zevran shuddered as their solemn line walked out of the caves. The vague marks that Solona had etched when they had followed Levi here had been hard to spot. He didn't think that anyone had even noticed them except for himself and Alistair. Even then, they only found them because they'd been looking. Because they knew they were there and that those marks would be the only way they found their way to the Peak.

A breeze filtered through the courtyard, and there was more than one gasp as they approached the keep. Zevran suspected that, with the mountain and the cliffside, the breeze might be perpetual. Levi and Mikhail were in the courtyard. Mikhail worked on something in his smithy, and Levi herded a small group of sheep into a pen. Zevran didn't doubt that at least three of those sheep would grace the dinner table that evening.

He hoped that Levi had more sheep than that to feed them though, because they would eat that small herd in no time. There were only three Wardens now, but they'd likely join at least half the recruits right off.

The breeze kicked up harder, and Zevran sighed as he reached up to hold his hair back out of his face. No matter what he'd claimed, he hadn't quite been able to make himself pull it back yet. He'd caught Alistair staring at him on this last leg of the journey. No doubt, he was still attempting to put his finger on what was different. Zevran was never more grateful for his pretty horse as he was in that moment. She followed Alistair to those stables with no prompting. Silly girl was going to have her heart broken if she kept chasing after that stallion.

Zevran thought it would be something damned fine for both of them to remember.

He slid off the horse, and he managed to take her tack off all by himself. He didn't need Luthanuel to come over to remind him how it went or show him again. Then he headed out to the courtyard once he'd settled the horse, glancing back up at the keep again. He'd never thought he'd stay in such a place for longer than it took him to complete his job and go home.

(Home. A sack of straw in some forgotten corner of the dorms that the Crow used. Maybe Taliesin's apartment; the one Zevran had helped pick out. It was strange to think that he'd never go back to either place. He'd never smell the leatherworkers on the ground floor of the bolt hole he'd never shown anyone. How long would it have taken for the place to have turned over, picked clean, as though he'd never been there? Did anyone in Antiva even realize he was gone, or did they think him dead? It didn't matter, whatever the case was, but it didn't stop him from wondering. It didn't stop the sharp pang in his chest, only rivaled by thoughts of her.)

He went still in the middle of the courtyard, his breath stopping for a second as he stared up at the keep's walls. He couldn't look at anything but the scrap of Warden-blue cloth in one of the windows. It had faded since she'd ripped it from her cloak, but there was no mistaking her sign for which room she'd loved. His throat tightened, and he couldn't manage to pull his gaze away. He couldn't do anything but watch it flap in the breeze.

A letter from the dead.

A message from the grave.

In Antiva, someone would have taken it down the minute that word of her passing had reached the keep. Here in Ferelden, it would stay until it rotted away. Until even the tokens she'd placed while alive had passed on, same as she had.

He blinked and jerked his gaze down, sucking in a sharp breath. Then he glanced over, looking for Alistair. It wasn't Alistair coming up on him though, it was Adrien and Clovis. Zevran had to draw another breath before he could manage the bland smile that he preferred to give them.

"We should begin the Joinings tonight," Adrien started, and Zevran pursed his lips.

"Such a rush. We should allow them an evening to settle in before we begin. In the grand scheme of things, a single evening will not matter that much, if at all. Let them rest. The Joinings can begin tomorrow evening instead."

"What? No, look, this is Warden business anyway—"

"He is more a Warden than you." Alistair cut in without seeming to even think about what he said. Zevran wondered if perhaps the Maker was watching this. If so, then he had a sense of humor that bordered on cruel when it came to his elves. "How many Blights have you fought in, after all?"

Adrien went still at the words, and Zevran spared a thought for strength. He reached out and brushed his fingers against Alistair's arm. Alistair met his gaze. There was something odd about the way Alistair lingered on his hair as it fell in his face again. He reached up, fingers brushing against Zevran's hair before he jerked back. He scowled at them and headed into the keep, a swirl of dark blue cloak.

Zevran looked back at Adrien and Clovis, shrugging. "I suppose this is what happens when one is one of the two Wardens who ended the Blight." He kept his voice even, and Clovis snorted, a faint smile on his lips. Adrien was less than impressed, because he frowned, looking at Zevran.

"You are not a Warden," he said, and Zevran wasn't sure if it was a question or not. He didn't think so.

"I helped end the Blight, Warden," he retorted, raising an eyebrow. "While you and the rest of the world remained safely on the other side of the Fereldan border. You will understand if there is some... flexibility in our ranks regarding those of us who participated in the fight and simple observers."

“Simple observers, hell,” Adrien growled. His hand went to his sword, tightening until his hand was white-knuckled around it. Zevran didn’t bother to flip out a dagger yet. Even as close as they were, Adrien would not be able to draw before Zevran. “We were stuck there. The damned Fereldans wouldn’t exactly allow us entry to the country—”

“If you really wanted in,” Zevran said, interrupting and offering his best vacant smile when he did it, “you would have left the chevaliers and the Orlesian forces. You knew Fereldans would never allow armed Orlesians within their borders. Grey Wardens alone would have been different, even if you are Orlesian.” He tilted his head back enough that he could look down his nose at Adrien, aware of the insult the motion was in Orlais. “But clearly, since I do not recall Alistair sensing any other Wardens in Denerim during the battle, that was not exactly a priority for you. Joinings will commence tomorrow evening, Warden. I do hope you can locate a room on your own.”

He didn’t wait for words from either Warden before he turned on his heel and headed into the keep himself. He lacked Alistair’s dramatic flair, but he made an impressive figure, if only because he was an elf. He’d just talked down a human. Not that long ago, that could have ended in his death. Well, to be fair, not that long ago, he would not have been so blunt with it. Perhaps he could locate a cloak of his own and learn to wield the thing as Fereldans did, a weapon and a sign all at once.

It was better that they focus their annoyance and anger on him though, instead of Alistair. Alistair, they could actually punish. Or send to Weisshaupt. And there was no way in the Black City that Zevran was going to Weisshaupt unless he had to. There was nothing in the Anderfels that would have even drawn him there.

He headed through the keep. The first trip they’d taken through it he'd only been aware of shuddering horror and the smell of old blood. He couldn’t have actually smelled the blood, but he felt like he could. It had to be there. After they’d found the possessed Sophia Dryden and Avernus, he'd trusted himself more.

This trip though, the keep was quiet and clean because Levi’s family did good work. Zevran found his way to the row of quarters that he’d inspected the first time. Someone had furnished them with new beds, bedding, candles, and fireplaces stocked with wood. Zevran took his time, knowing that the recruits would be a while.

They wouldn’t know where they were going after all.

He narrowed it down to two rooms: one facing the courtyard and one facing the cliffside. He knew immediately that the one facing the courtyard would be the better room. It was more prominently placed, but it gave him the best view of anyone coming into the keep. He lingered in the room for several minutes before he headed back to the other one.

Tucked away in the corner, the door was so easily overlooked that it took Zevran a couple of passes to spot it. When he went inside, he headed straight to the window. The room was on the ground floor, but here on the backside of the keep, there was no ground stretching out. There were only cliffs and the sea so far down there, crashing on the rocks. When he closed his eyes, all he could smell was the sea, all he could hear was the rhythmic crash of the waves. It was the closest to the docks in Antiva that he could have ever wished for.

He knew which room he should pick. He knew which one was the better choice.

That didn’t stop him from locating the key. It was tucked under the pillow by a thoughtful member of Levi’s family. He locked the room before he headed back to get his things.

Tomorrow would be a busy day with the Joinings. Zevran had to ensure that Alistair was not drunk or nearly drunk by the time that evening rolled around. For now, he could focus on his own things, on the trinkets he’d managed to collect during their travels. He could focus on anything other than that damnable Warden-blue.


End file.
